Thinking on the banks of the Neuse

---Caught in the cluttered current
Of a river called Everyday Life,
I drift, hopeless to fly, too tired to fight,
So I swim frantically, hoping
To master myself and control the drift
And either way a failure I feel,
For the lazy lying and the strenuous strokes
Can neither one change my place--
I am yet in the same river, living.

The living a fact, and forgotten
The truth of the source who Makes
The river and all in it, yet is not the river,
And until I see the life I live is not mine
To drift away and hide, or to control and spend,
By origin this life, my living, is gifted,
No right to be or do was ever less deserved,
For only Bought with a Price aptly describes
My river tour; and my tag reads "sold."

reading

"To see through to God.

  That that which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, 

may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place

to the heart-aching beauty beyond.  To Him.  To the God whom we endlessly crave.  

  Maybe so.

  But how? How do we choose to allow the holes to become seeing-through-to-God places?  To more-God places?

  How do I give up resentment for gratitude, gnawing anger for spilling joy?  Self-focus for God-communion."

These have been my questions for a while, now.  Finding another soul who wrestles and writes a story to illustrate is promising, in a quest to discover that which can transform the bitter waters to a living wellspring, full of grace and truth and joy.  Her challenge:  "A dare to an emptier, fuller life."   

One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp, pp 22-23

A Timbered Choir

A collection of Sabbath poems by Wendell Berry, worthy of reading first thing in the quiet of the morning, they still the soul to listen. 

I go among trees and sit still.

All my stirring becomes quiet

around me like circles on water.

My tasks lie in their places

where I left them, asleep like cattle.

~Stanza I of the First Poem. 

Feeding young Elliana oatmeal. Not because she couldn't do it herself; some sort of communion was going on there.

how can this be?

He has two brothers and sister,
but not one in the same house.
A first mom who's known
by her first name, a picture
to him who knows another,
a wholly unrelated person
as Mama; his daily bread
comes from her hand, from the body
of she who bore him not, but
gives her every day to holding
the baby boy, a little man child.
He knows no home outside of love
a mutual need that brought him here--
he who needed care, and
those who needed to care, and
those he left behind did care enough
to release him, to be loved--
a stranger thing was never known
among men.  He who suffers the way
of the unknown, yields his own
to those plans of God, whose sons
come not by flesh and blood
but by water and word, the vow:

"I love you; you are mine."

the thankfulness Sabbath

On days like this one,

sixty degrees, mare's tail cloud

in a blue sky reflected silver

in the broad expanse of river below,

we sit, the king and I, observing.

The small son crawling behind

our chairs which are minimalist thrones

metal and new plastic, durable

deck furniture placidly waiting

empty until the tourists come.

We, the rulers of a minute kingdom,

watch our offspring on hands and knees

safe between concrete wall and railing,

and he watches us, playing peek-a-boo

and racing away at turtle-speed 

that we might pursue and overtake,

capture him, throw him in the air

reclaim the liberty we offered in joy

of watching, to see what he would do.

We sit, the king and I, under blue sky,

viewing the silver tidal river

on the deck of the new museum,

coffee drained from the white cups,

and we rise from our rest, to walk again.

  

the whole picture

Queen Orual's hand with that of her baby--what can't be seen in the title page, is here revealed in full:

Credits for the lovely photos she made for us go to Laurel at http://eilasphotography.blogspot.com/ 

Limited Vision

Calisthenics on the river beach
is my reason to be there for
the dogs to roll in smelly debris,
scamper over rock and sand, stare
in fearful questioning, ears alert
at the duck drifting with his mate
quietly watching back they startle,
flee the waters leaving us wondering
at the hasty ripples on calm waters,
no wind to whip up superficial waves,
where the grey reflective river meets
a silvery cloud of sky descended to
a close horizon, hiding the other shore
where blue trees rise out of mist,
there where we desire to see out
to harbour's end and beyond,
the very sky hosting the sun
plays wool-gatherer with the clouds,
hiding from view what comes next--
future sailing or landed living.

Rain, again

thunder wakes from deep waters of sleep--
listen to the rain pounding the roof
as if the heavens divided up a great river,
sending it to earth through a seive,
washing pollen from grass to street,
filling the drains with excess fertility,
leaching the chem-lawns next door same as
flooding our manured mulches down to the curb;
lay awake and think of later soggy dogs,
wet shoes squeaking on the steps,
finding the umbrella for a Saturday outing--
but first let sleep enshroud the memory
and wake to measure the coffee grounds
which suffer the drip of hot springs
into the cup of human comfort.

Raining

The assignment of days comes upon us
As surprise, unasked life granted
To the sleeping eyes of unborn men.

Waking, I need to fill the hours
Impose limits upon the moments
That fill my mind's space with promise.

The expectation of fulfillment
Rests like a gilt cloak upon our shoulders,
Heavy with our doubts, a cement-like lining.

Whence the requirement of this destiny?
But leave the question for another hour--
Man must eat, he must heed nature's lawful demands.

What demands, these, I pause to wonder,
What pressure of time, the clock ticking,
What many needs, what judgement waiting!

I look and watch the tree--so many trees--
Choose but one and see how it grows,
Rooted daily in one plot of earth.

How the root presses down for drink,
While branches reach for strength
Heavenward they sway, firmly bound they remain.

Up Lookout Mountain

Upon the mountain is a little city
Founded upon the stone,
Bedrock heaped up out of earth
Woods lifting hoary branches to the sky
Clothing the unshakeable rock.

In shelter of forest, houses stand
Grafted into hard ground, fragile
Soil harbouring abundant life
Where wild things run in the shadows
God-curious man stations his young.

On this secluded mountain children
Of man flock to the precipice
Assemble at the peak excercising tongues
With thoughts in words and seeing visions
They hear voices speak of both faith and folly.

At the foot of the mount a big city
Invites the young sons to her streets
Where empty buildings beacon, beg
Invasion, the business of shopkeeping
In which man revives the empty vessel
At home with the muse who gives birth to thought.

A long time ago

As I read recently, there was a country called Kingsville from which a prince and princess were rescued by the grace of sovereign decrees. They were led to a land, like unto the promised land, by the sea. There they settled and carried on their work of which they complained often but had much else of which to be thankful.

Therefore I return to writing and offer here a few for the long absence.


Leaving Time

Wake up long after the alarm
Sleep so sweet, sickness follows,
The bitter taste of time lsot
Taints every waking moment
Negating beneficent hour half awake
Savouring soft morning pillow warmth

Now haste nips at sore heels,
Pounding the stairs, up and down
Hurry and pack, swiftly think,
Thoughts attack like dogs wrestling
Vie for dominion, all with torn ears--
And with bags packed, we slam the trunk.

Upon the road, questions riot
With did the door get locked?
And where's the key? Old habits
Prepared the way long before we left;
Racing through the city, we leave
Far behind our life in the last hour.

Only the alarm we failed to heed
Chases us and rings on in our head.

Captivatingly special

Having finished the book for a second, more well-dicussed time, we decided that it's a pretty good joke that women are the crown of creation (we would like to second that thought). Then there's the man~ woman relationship thing that's all signed and sealed in marriage, yet a bit tricky out of that fence and basically ruined by sin, and somehow redeemable by his grace. Finally, there's a big hang up we have about letting our beauty speak for itself because we are too concerned with other people's perception of us; we fear what others will think more than resting in what God thinks of us. If we only knew what C. S. Lewis said in the first place: men are no mere mortals, but God's little god-sons, who think either too highly or too lowly of themselves by sin's nature, when we ought to think God's thoughts about ourselves and be thus free from thinking about self at all, being filled with Him.

Brother Lawrence

The Practice of the Presence of God is my newest reading into the mysteries of prayer and worship. After reading a chapter in Captivating on worship to God, as given by an individual like oneself, I realise one must make time for these things. How would I ever make more time in an already full day of work and more work and writing and teaching and work like sweeping. Dinner alone takes a long time to make, even if it's easy leftovers, because one must heat them up and add special effects to them so as not to appear as Yesterday's Reheated Mush.

One morning, pen in hand, I found myself writing way in my "spiritual journal" entitled God among the gods a long list of all the things I needed to be doing than worshipping God. I had captured my own fancy into sitting down at the desk in the first place by saying "I will proclaim myself an hour of premeditated Wasted Time, so that whether I get anything out of this Worship thing or not, maybe God can do something with wasted time." Therefore I prayed.

but it doesn't mean anything!

If what Mr Capon says is true: that the world was created not to mean something, but to be, then all we have every day is a funny sort of problem. I ought to ask myself upon waking (or some while later after a few pots of tea) not, 'what meaningful thing shall I do today?' but rather 'what's for breakfast?' and then set out to accomplish that work which was planned for me before the foundations of the world were established upon the face of the waters. Man lays plans of which God directs the outcome and afterwards we are to survey the work, that it was good, as done by him in us. But what of all the daily failures? One might well ask. And perhaps the answer lies in the fact that we live as if set upon Plan B from the beginning.

on practice of Reading

Q. offers good advice for those already literate in the mother tongue of which you are reading poetry at the moment, but this is nigh unto impossible with second-language students. To read a poem through with no stops in one's classroom, then wait for questions is to wait for wrinkles and grey hair. A new-to-english student is both shy and lacks the vocabulary to ask questions about content. Thus, in violation of Q's dictum, I find it most helpful to question my students, explaining words and pictures and ideas as we go along, one stanza at a time, re-reading over again all at once. We are all like hard sponges, needing much sprinkling of words to soften the ear to hearing and the heart to absorbing the life giving picture.

on Reading

Arthur Quiller-Couch says one should read poetry to children (speaking on Childrens' Literature) in a good strong voice with no stops to explain all the allusions and metaphors, allowing the children to ask questions at the end of the reading. One may call upon one child at a time to read outloud (as in a class) but never to interrupt for corrections until the end. At a greater level of understanding, one must read rather extensively to know a) the culture of the time in which the poem was written, and b) the life of the author, which is I suppose why I study of history is essential to a study of literature. With poetry, the spirit of the word comes to the child's heart by hearing, reading, singing, acting it and building upon it.
If there is a 'bottom line' for the purpose of poetry, it is, in Q's words, 'less [in] its subject than its song. Though life condemn [a child] to live it through in the Valley of Humiliation, I want to hear the Shepherd Boy singing.'

upon second view

The ways of human perfection are that the price of pain produces beauty and a treasure gained by the beautiful for her pleasure. Geisha capture a man and give him in return a sense of happiness in her presence. In the creation of a cult, geisha become someone with an invaluable identity, drawing others into their sphere by the power of artistic perfection.

geishas

The mystery, the beauty, the serenity through striving to be a moving work of art. These visual messages imprint themselves upon my soul and I am undone. A passing flame of glory in the cherry blossom is the Japanese art written into the person of a woman called to be geisha. What truth in a glimpse of beauty personified yet personhood betrayed I cannot find the answer, not yet.

royal abandonment

The muses vacated the house, leaving no note of either "Back Soon" or ""Forever, Amen." Mother Kirk is perhaps to blame, causing chaos with her need for my understanding. Knocking at my door for days turned into years with a truth for all men about themselves--it's all in a book.

The species created by God in two genders to keep His garden can't decide who's going to be in charge of the ploughing. If not strictly a matter of authority, we reason, perhaps it's about individual tasks. Who is built to hold the plough, and who is qualified, by very nature, to care for the oxen back at the barn? One camp of men envision an orderly society arranged as masters and servants, from the delicate bonds of marriage to the top plank of the clergy. The other camp decide they need perfected fairness between man and woman...Christ and church?

the necessity of divorce

Going from Judaism to Christianity, going from aetheism to Christianity, going from Christianity to Christ. It takes a while, these life changes. Who's doing the changing? Can it be man, oneself? Is it God? Where the choice ends and the control begins is the souly tug of war.